


Sunk

by Merit



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:37:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9604337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: There was no end, yet.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [htbthomas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/gifts).



They were underground, a fact that Peter had been trying to ignore for some time now. Water sloshed around their ankles, staining their cuffs. He was fairly certain his shoes were beyond Molly's skills. There were two werelights in the air; Peter's hovering above his head, Lesley's werelight dashing to and fro, following as her as she paced through the icy water.

In the light, fragment bouncing off the stone walls, their breath coming quick and fast, her face had an uncanny edge. Too perfect, skin smoother than a newborn baby doll, eyes set as if they had been placed there, mouth fuller than Peter than remembered.

“They'll find us,” Peter said.

It was the first time either of them had spoken for hours. Lesley slowly turned, the werelight behind her head like an unholy halo, and gave Peter a thoroughly unimpressed stare.

“You said something like that at the beginning of this disaster,” she said, placing a hand against the stone and squinting. She muttered something, Peter craning his head forward, but it was lost as the earth groaned. Several clumps of dirt fell from above, narrowing missing them both. Lesley hissed and slammed a fist against the wall. Her eyes narrowed with pain, an expression flickering across her features a moment later.

Peter shrugged, movement hampered by the ropes around his hands. It was slick to the touch, and felt strongly like Lesley, Chorley's own after taste following shortly. He was fairly certain he could break free – he just wasn't entirely certain of the results. Lesley didn't seem inclined to kill him, yet, but seemed tolerable of Peter getting lightly maimed. He looked down at his wrists before his eyes darted over to Lesley. And he wasn't looking forward to finding out what this Lesley thought about lightly maiming someone.

“I was hopeful of a speedier rescue,” Peter admitted, fear creeping like a shroud over his shoulders. He stilled his breathing before taking a deep breath. He really wasn't happy being underground either.

Lesley spared him a glance, her features neutral. “Hope is a bit maudlin, Peter,” Lesley said.

Peter rolled his eyes, shifting on his feet, wet socks squelching in his shoes. He was going to burn them when he got out of here, he decided. Even if Molly could get the stink of London out of them. “He's got you reading his philosophical treatises, now?”

“And here I thought you didn't want to talk about him,” Lesley said lightly.

“He did try to kill me,” Peter started and when Lesley shrugged her shoulders. “I can't depend on you for my life, Lesley.”

A shadow crossed her face, werelight looming behind her, stray strands of hair standing up like live wires. She chewed her bottom lip, eyes lowered. The werelight spun around her head, laughter creeping through the air, even though London and all the bustle was stretched far above their heads.

“You're not dead, yet,” Lesley said, finally, after the silence had stretched out. Peter stared at Lesley at the words hung there. He swallowed, looking away.

He didn't like the operative 'yet'.


End file.
